By Candlelight
by MiraMizu15
Summary: It's the winter of 1773, and the Pennsylvania back country serves a perfect place to fall in love. But Alfred Jones is proving more of a mystery than Natalya first thought, and she's determined to figure out just what makes him so odd.


**::A/N:: I don't own Hetalia**

**This was a secret santa fic that I wrote for tumblr user snowmusket. I decided to upload it here, and critiques/advice would be much appreciated. I try very hard to improve my writing.**

**Happy New Years!**

**Warnings: Yuri, don't like don't read. Fem!America x Belarus**

* * *

Natalya pulled her long shimmering hair out of the tangling grasp of the wind, securing it tightly and mercilessly to the back of her skull. She wrapped the black ribbon once, twice, three times around the tail's base and knotted it solidly. The December morning was caustically cold. Red was blooming cruelly across her high pale cheek bones, frost's fingers nipping against her skin. Her thighs burned with the chill under the unusual protection of her brother's breeches. They had been easiest to reach when the chickens began screeching, and easiest were they now to move in, running to and fro as Natalya so found herself.

"Fools! Return to your cages!" She batted in vain at a runaway bird. It got but a little distance before a snow bank reared its head, caging the animal in and forcing it to return whence it came. Hail storms had always made the poultry anxious, and Natalya should have smelled snow in the air. She had lived in Pennsylvania long enough to tell the weather.

She kicked at the ground, scuffing her travel boots with icy frost. Only six of seven birds were successfully subdued in their pen, and the sun was beginning to pull itself up and over the horizon. Natalya would be needed at the beck and call of her older kitchen sister any minute now. Every morning they kneaded the bread, prepared the soup, and selected the meat for dinner. They would create Ivan's breakfast, set his place at the table, and wake him for his day. Her sister deserved what help Natalya could give, and the girl loathed to strain the older woman's kindness.

Frustrated, Natalya threw off her cumbersome gloves, dropping them to the ground left of her feet. The mottled brown rebel hen clucked past, seemingly under the impression that both the storm and the great captor had departed. But Natalya was a beast in hiding, a storm as unseen as the one that occurred the night before, and she remained frozen in place, eyes fixed on the silly, stupid bird.

She lunged the second the bird's grain-puttering wandered within a few inches of her toes. Long white fingers snatched the squawking, squirming animal high into the air. She secured her hold on feathered flesh, hardly keen at the idea of repeating the entire patience-snapping process.

"You are useless, truly," she scorned, dropping the hen into her wooden coop and bolting the small door.

Natalya wiped her hands clean in the crystallized snow, abused flesh acutely responsive to the blistering chill. Grabbing her gloves, she shoved them back over her fingers.

The backdrop of evergreens was white and glistening in the pink sunrise. The Pennsylvania fields sloped languidly along the skyline, the edges of both flirting into one seamless strawberry-white line that extended for miles and miles. In moments, Natalya knew it would disappear; the crisp snow and the sharp blue sky would again stand alone for the day. But at dusk and at dawn they were able to meet in shrouded mystery, the one tangled in the other.

Natalya sighed, shaking her head, stirring pockets of unforgiving wind along the shells of her unprotected ears. Ivan would be leaving as soon as the sun illuminated the landscape, as soon as it was safe enough to ride to Philadelphia. They had spent the majority of the night previous packing Ivan's bags, trying in any way they could to ease his important journey. It was a very rare opportunity that Ivan had stumbled upon.

Traditionally, the Braginskis' had always been blacksmiths, and Ivan had hardly given up the trade in colonial America. At first work had been scarce; manufactured goods flowed steadily from England. But over the past couple of decades, ever since the French and Indian War demand for local craftsmen had grown. In fact, with the nonimportation acts in full swing against Britain, business had never been better.

Ivan had not seen it fit to inform Natalya or her sister of the exact details of this big Philadelphia gathering. Rather, he had been unusually vague and distracting when Natalya began to pry. But she was not stupid, it was 1773 and people were beginning to talk, especially Pennsylvanians. The papers were in full swing, and suspicion was as prevalent among the people as farming. Natalya could read fairly well, and the pamphlets Ivan brought home weren't advertising the benevolence of King George.

Hitting her boots against the side of the house, Natalya still couldn't understand Ivan's ardency. They were Russian immigrants who had fled poverty and persecution, hardly natural born American citizens. Natalya felt no kinship to this boiling infant democracy, and she did not understand how Ivan could feel any different.

"Natalya! Come help with breakfast."

"Da, da, Yekaterina, I am coming," she sighed, leaving her shoes beside the doorframe. The inside of the house was fairly spartan, and certainly had no Christmas cheer about it. Yekaterina was always complaining that she had no time to decorate what with рождество a scarce month away, being busy as she was, and Natalya was hard pressed to feel guilty. She saw little point in the festivities of the holiday.

When she entered the kitchen, the first thing she was greeted with was twin exclamations. "Natalya!" he brother chastised, first to recover. "Why are you wearing my trousers? Remove them at once."

Natalya brushed him off. "No one is here to see," she sighed, sweeping off her gloves and coat.

Yekaterina coughed into her hand and Ivan covered his face, sighing.

Natalya whirled at the sound of a breathy laugh. "Mornin' ma'am," came a slightly off-pitch Bostonian accent. Standing across the room was the strangest and prettiest man Natalya had ever seen. His shoulder-length ponytail a vibrant blonde, and his overcoat was a dark navy; the deep blue violently accented his startlingly azure eyes. Along his lapels was carefully stitched flowering embroidery that crept across his chest and around the back of neck. To her ever-growing horror, his clothes were the finest she'd ever seen

She choked. "I- I am terribly- Excuse me," she finally muttered, hastily shoving past him into the solace of her bedroom.

How humiliating. How utterly shameful that she should be caught in her brother's breeches in the dead of morning by what was undoubtedly a wealthy merchant of some kind. She quickly exchanged the menswear for a more suitable woolen dress, hastily braiding her hair on top of her head. She swallowed the acid-like embarrassment and re-emerged in the kitchen, shakily inclining her chin in the guest's direction.

"This is my sister, Natalya," Ivan said in barely concealed frustration. The edge in his tone caused his sister to wince.

"Pleasure to meet you," Natalya muttered, keeping her face resolutely turned toward the crackling fire.

The man laughed, once again surprising Natalya with the airy quality of it. "No, pleasure's all mine, really. The name's Alfred Jones. I have plenty of siblings at home, nothing I haven't seen before. No need to have a fit, Braginski," he said good-naturedly, patting Ivan's stiff upper arm.

The Russian's smile was strained.

Yekaterina hurried to lay a plate for the visitor, but was stopped by his easy decline. "No thanks, ma'am. Ate on the way. Mighty kind of you, though." He sat back in his chair, turning to directly address Natalya. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments before she forcefully denied the contact any longer. "Has Ivan told you of the plan, yet, ma'am?"

Yekaterina answered for her sister with a brief shake of her head, bright motherly eyes fixed on Ivan. She brushed a fly-away lock of hair behind her ear. "No, he hasn't yet. Brother?"

Ivan pushed his chair back from the table, eliciting a hair-raising screech from the wooden legs. "I will be away for a while, sisters, and I felt that it was in your best interests to have a man around the house to keep you safe, da? Alfred is reputable. I know his father."

Natalya had never heard such a dismal, damning sentence in all her life. She rounded on this Alfred. "You are _remaining_ with us? For the duration of my brother's journey? But that could be months!"

"Exactly," Ivan said coldly, standing. "So do try to behave like a lady, Natalya."

Glowering, Natalya backed down, anger still lapping at the edges of her restraint.

She would not stand for this strange man in her home.

...

The three weeks since her brother's departure had been as vexing and intolerable as Natalya had feared. Alfred was a perfect gentleman, utterly charming in every way… but he was odd. His already high-pitched voice would occasionally crack or become hoarse. He was careful to never undress in front of either sister, always securely locking the door of Ivan's bedroom to change. He was awfully slight for a man and was hardly an inch taller than she.

On the other hand, he ate like a pig, he did all the manual labor that needed to be done, and he was the best shot Natalya had ever seen. He propped his musket against a rock and could hit a wolf fifteen stone-throws away. He was handsome, too, there was no denying it, and he was talented and energetic to boot.

In those regards, Natalya (and certainly Yekaterina) was grateful for his presence. But the younger Braginski had a suspicious streak as far as Jones' aim, and her doubts were only solidified on the fourth week of his stay.

Suddenly, whenever Alfred had to take a piss, he would go on long, fifteen minute walks that left Yekaterina baffled. "Where do you think he goes, Nat?" she asked, eyes out the window. He had vanished into the chilly afternoon a mere seven minutes prior.

Natalya shrugged, skinning potatoes for the night's supper. "I haven't the faintest idea, but I'd kill to find out."

Yekaterina gently whacked her over the head with a dishcloth. "Don't talk like that."

Natalya growled, throwing down her unfortunate potato. "This is ridiculous, sister! He is supposed to stay here and protect us, yet he disappears for hours in the day. What is Ivan paying him for?"

Yekaterina sighed, sinking her hands into warm soapy water. "Let him be, Natalya. Perhaps he misses his family. You can survive without his presence can't you? Or are you so smitten-."

"You are a fool," Natalya replied derisively, jumping from her old wooden chair. "I feel nothing of the sort for him. However, I _am_ going to solve this mystery once and for all."

"Natalya-!"

But Yekaterina's warning was lost on her sister as Natalya bundled herself in her warmest coat and tugged on her thick hiking boots. She disappeared out the door, body immediately acclimating to the stark drop in temperature. As Christmas approached, the clouds only grew thicker and the wind more bitter. It was going to be a harsh winter.

With no newly falling snow, it was easy to pick out Alfred's untouched trail against the ground. Each boot print was as pristine as the first, and Natalya found herself stepping in his shoes, a simpler task than trekking through uncharted foot-deep snow. She followed the path over the hills and through the endless field, frustrated and curious as to why Alfred went so far to piss.

Then, up ahead, she saw Alfred's indistinct figure, shoulders hunched and head lowered. His back seemed to be facing her, and she slowed her angry stride. Maybe he just liked fresh air, she reasoned. She would feel so awkward if she stumbled upon him in the middle of his piss.

But then he straightened up and turned around, eyes seeming to slide over her in his brief assessment of the landscape. She jogged now; keen to confront him on his strange habits. She had never been able to let things be.

When he finally noticed her, his lovely eyes went wide. "Oh, Nat, what're you doing out here? You'll catch cold."

She pointedly blocked his path. "Why do you come so far out of your way to relieve yourself?"

He spluttered and attempted to get their feet moving back towards the house. "I don't know what you mean, Nat. We really should get back to your sister, though."

He tried to push by her, but Natalya held out a rigid arm to stop him. "It is most strange, Mr. Jones, and I came all this way for an answer."

His calloused fingers grasped her softer ones, and she felt her cheeks heat up. "Just leave it alone, Natalya. Come on." He began to gently tug her back in the direction of the house, hand never leaving hers. He had very small hands, she noted numbly.

Shaking her head, she threw one last look over her shoulder and stopped dead. "I- is that _blood_?!" A splattering of red stood out clearly against the snow, a dying bloom in winter.

Alfred's face paled considerable. "Uh, yeah, just cut myself chopping wood. Splinter."

She was too close to an answer to be deterred now. "Do not lie to me, I wish to know. Your hand does not look like it is bleeding! I will tell Ivan that you are a lying cheat and do not deserve his money-!"

A sharp slap stopped her rant instantly. "Stop being an immature little girl, Natalya," Alfred hissed. "Leave it alone when I tell you."

Natalya's injured pride kept her silent all the way back.

...

Things were painfully awkward between Alfred and Natalya. Ever since he had raised his hand to her, she had refused to speak to him, tongue tied in humiliated hurt. Yekaterina had noticed, was even disappointed, but said nothing. She knew when to let her little sister be.

Yet Natalya couldn't get Alfred out of her head. With everything he did, with every smile he gave, her heart hammered just a little bit more and it disgusted her. Once her brother returned from Philadelphia, Alfred would be gone and none of this would ever matter. It was simpler to stay angry over their spat.

But it wasn't easy when Alfred was nothing but apologetic every chance he got, always trying to be unusually nice or caring. He was doing half her chores for her, and she didn't understand why. When he washed the night's dishes or made the morning beds, he did it with surprisingly practiced skill, singing carols under his breath that made Yekaterina giggle. He was a damning charmer, and all Natalya knew was a painful fluttering in her chest and hopeless nighttime fantasies.

Christmas was finally upon them, and the kitchen was brimming with a thick lazy atmosphere that suggested full stomachs and contented hearts. Alfred, upon request, had killed one of the older chickens. It had made a great meal, and Natalya's dour expression had worn itself away as the night carried on. Later, when the fire was dying down, Alfred, being the only one able to read without hitch, had orated Ivan's most recent letter with such a sparkling drama that even Natalya was laughing by the end.

Now, her stomach was bursting and her heart was light as she lay awake in the dark, her sister snoring lightly on the other side of the room. Yekaterina had turned in early, all polite declinations and flustered bravado, laying claim to crippling fatigue. She had disappeared to her room and left Natalya and Alfred by the fire, two uncomfortable young people on Christmas evening. But Alfred was most certainly a man of charisma, and he hadn't allowed the sticky silence long to live, eventually breaking it with questions. He had inquired about her homeland with the boy's wonder in his eyes palpable, clearly painting the pictures she described, the frozen forests and the ice-coated rivers, the towering skeleton of a winter palace that promised to be the most beautiful building Saint Petersburg had ever seen.

He asked about her journey overseas, and she described the cold and the hunger and the fear that had lain thick on every single gray individual, all hearts heavy and hopeless when confronted with the intangibility of the New World. She described feeling like a ghost, lost and forgotten on the obdurate ocean, and Alfred listened. He listened with the cares of someone close to her, and it made her feel incredible.

Natalya rolled over, heart and mind too anxious to rest, the thrumming in her blood too lively. It was ridiculous, foolish, beyond unrealistic, but she felt it nevertheless. She could hardly keep her eyes shut, and finally, inevitably, they flew open to take in the darkness and the silence. Her vision adjusted easily, and was suddenly caught by a light flickering through a hole in the wall. It was candlelight, and as Natalya sat up, she knew it must be a flame they had accidently left lit.

Sighing, she swung her naked legs out of bed and groped for the breeches her brother had never taken away from her. With them and her wool sweater, Natalya felt prepared to brave the frigid night.

She tiptoed past her sister's bed; stocking-feet making no noise against the floorboards, and eased open the door, well familiarized with the lay of the house. The light seemed to be emanating from the living room, and so it was in that direction that Natalya traveled, hands hidden deep within the sleeves of her sweater. She turned the corner, a little yawn escaping her lips, and froze.

Alfred was standing solitary by a tiny candle's flame, and his unbuttoned vest was sprawled on a nearby chair. He slipped his fingers under the hem of his linen shirt and began pulling it up, exposing…

…Exposing the waist of a woman, all curving supply hips. And then the back of a woman, with bandages wrapped around his – _her – _chest. Natalya was shocked, flummoxed, her eyes disbelieving. Everything she had secretly hoped for was crumbling and floundering in a sea of pained confusion. "You- you lied to us," she murmured, knees trembling.

Alfred whipped around, face horrified and panicked, pretty pink lips wide in the shape of a terrified "o". "N-Natalya. It's not what it looks like."

"Isn't it?" she accused, moving further into the darkened room. She made certain to keep her voice low, not wanting to wake her sister. "You are a woman."

Alfred turned her gaze to the wall, casting her face in shadow. "I- You wouldn't understand, Nat." Her voice, Natalya realized, was so divinely dazzling when she wasn't masking it as a man's.

Natalya raised her arm and slapped her, the flat of her hand coming into perfect contact with Alfred's ruddy cheek, snapping it to the side. "You fool," she gasped, anger and fear bubbling up into her throat. "Th-that's for hitting me out in the snow."

Her eyes were the size of the moon that hung in the cloudless sky. "Okay, I deserved that. But you were on to me that day. It was that time in the month."

Natalya took another step forward and nodded. "Explain everything. Start with your real name."

"It's Amelia." The woman laughed without humor, the strike clearly causing her pain. She finally graced Natalya with her shocking stare.

"Does Alfred even exist, Amelia?"

Amelia seemed to shiver as her name left Natalya's lips. "Yeah. He's my brother, but he came down sick with pneumonia a week before he was scheduled to leave for your home." She twisted her fingers until they cracked. "My family has ten children in it, Nat."

Natalya grimaced. "You needed the money."

Amelia nodded, eyes never leaving the Russian girl's lovely face. "I have never let anything bad happen to either of you. Please, can we keep this a secret?" She stretched her hand between them, and for an instant Natalya thought she was being asked to shake it. But then Amelia's palm cupped her cheek and she was left short of breath. "I trust you. And your sister," Amelia begged, fingers rough on smooth skin. "And I care about you."

Natalya turned her cheek, eyes stinging. Whatever she had thought she felt for Alfred had not dissipated when faced with Amelia. Only now it burned ten times worse, with a fire that scorched her heart. "Care _how_?" she whispered, voice strangled and cold and biting in ways she didn't mean.

Amelia flinched, fingers spasming against Natalya's cheek. "In ways I shouldn't," was her halting, breathy reply. "But I'm not sorry, Nat. You are so magnificent, and I'll never be sorry."

Natalya's throat spit out something between a sob and a laugh. "We're going to be killed."

"No. We're going to be happy." And then Amelia was on her, and her lips were so soft, and her hands were so small, but her passion was unbridled and it was swallowing Natalya. Her hands were vicious on Amelia's hips, and Amelia's hands were wound so tightly in Natalya's hair she swore she could see lights popping behind her closed lids. But it was wonderful and bewitching, and the fires in her chest seemed just a little friendlier as they were tempered by the seedlings of love. Because when had Natalya ever been a simple girl? She was a predator, a rule-breaker, a dangerous woman to be reckoned with, and her love was never fated to be ordinary.

Amelia broke away, curly blonde hair escaping its ponytail, smile dancing genuinely about her lips. "I'm already happy."

And Natalya laughed.

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**::A/N:: **

**Рождество: Razghdestva or Christmas in Russian**

**Gah, not sure if I like that ending, but I hope it was satisfactory. **


End file.
